


little discoveries

by fthh



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, F/F, Fluff, Fluff without Plot, how many times can i say fluff?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-29
Updated: 2020-05-29
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:42:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24442282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fthh/pseuds/fthh
Summary: after they move in together, Ingrid and Mercedes discover little things about each other.
Relationships: Ingrid Brandl Galatea/Mercedes von Martritz
Comments: 8
Kudos: 47





	little discoveries

**Author's Note:**

> written for Mercedes Weekend.




Mercedes is a bit absent-minded at times. It’s just that she has trouble prioritising between the million different things she has to think about all the time.

(It’s always one or two things that she thinks she can put off for later while she does paperwork first. She’s not an animal.)

Ingrid just gently tells her: “You forgot to do the dishes again, love.”




Mercedes snores in her sleep, but Ingrid already knows that. After all, even before they moved in together Ingrid had spent many nights over at Mercedes’ apartment.

But this… this is new. Mercedes talks in her sleep. It comes as a surprise: Ingrid is awoken by a hand slapping on her cheek, hard enough to rouse her from sleep, but not so hard that it would sting.

“Mercie…?” Her own voice is rough and raspy.

“Butter the television,” comes the answer, loud and clear.

“I’m sorry, what?” Ingrid sits up, turns on the lamp on her nightstand to its dimmest setting.

“Butter the television, oven at 350 degrees for 3 days.”

It takes a minute for Ingrid to rub the sleep away from her eyes. She watches her girlfriend for a bit, finally making out her closed eyes in the low light casting a faint glow over her features. (It’s like she’s falling in love again.)

“Oh, sweetheart,” Ingrid chuckles and presses a light kiss on Mercedes’ forehead.

She goes back to sleep.




Now that Ingrid’s moved in, she’s taken to dropping her girlfriend off at the hospital.

Mercedes usually goes by subway — otherwise, it’s just a twenty-minute bike ride away.

And it’s all fine, really. Except Ingrid apparently doesn’t know what speed limits are (or flouts them — Mercedes doesn’t know which one is worse. She dreads to ponder upon the answer.)

“Babe, the engine’s nice and hot now,” Ingrid calls out as Mercedes approaches the car. She gingerly makes her way to the passenger seat, frowning a little. “Hey, is something the matter?”

Mercedes leans over the stick shift and cups her girlfriend’s face in her hands. She trails small kisses around Ingrid’s mouth, much to the latter’s surprise and confusion.

“Um…?”

“Let me just preface this by saying I love you.” Ingrid tries to lean back, to study Mercedes’ facial expression, to look for any clues as to where the conversation is headed, but Mercedes’ hands are firmly holding her in place.

“Um,” she tries again.

“Ingrid, you drive so fast. I worry about our lives sometimes.”

A sort of realisation dawns on Ingrid’s features and she smiles sheepishly at her girlfriend. So all this time — Mercedes clutching at her thigh when she  _ steps _ on the accelerator? (She thought Mercedes was just being affectionate.) Mercedes holding her hand over the gear shift when she hits the brakes? (Again, she chalks it up to Mercedes being tactile.) Mercedes saying a prayer before she pulls out of the parking lot?

Oh…  _ oh. _

“Oh,” she says dumbly. Ingrid lowers her gaze. “I just like being fast.”

“You do, don’t you?” Ingrid smacks her girlfriend lightly on the shoulder. “Please, darling. I can’t be having heart attacks at my age. I’d like to spend many more years with you.”

“Well, when you put it that way…”

Ingrid stays at a range of 5 mph from the speed limit from then on.




As it turns out, Ingrid knows her way around the kitchen very well. She’s no baker, like Mercedes, but growing up eating meat she’s picked up one or two cooking skills (she remembers her mother, particularly, fussing over teaching her cooking because it’s a “womanly skill”. She has to laugh.)

(They’d stayed in, the first day they moved in together, after Ingrid volunteers to cook.  _ I don’t want to face the world quite yet, _ she’d said.  _ And I saw some things in your fridge that I can cook. _

_ It’s your fridge too, now, sweetheart. _ )

Mercedes moans at the first bite of her barbecue chicken sandwich. “Sweetheart, this is delicious,” she says.

Ingrid watches on with a proud smile. “Thank you. And happy birthday.” She presses a light kiss to Mercedes’ cheek, and starts to eat her own sandwich. Around them are people out for their early morning jogs.

Ingrid can, of course, feel the curious gazes upon them — it is weird to be out on a picnic at 9 on a Wednesday morning, after all, but this is the only day they both have off, and their friends have already planned a weekend full of activity and not a whole lot of time to themselves, so. They take what they can.

There’s a trail of sauce dripping over the side of Ingrid’s lips — Mercedes nonchalantly leans over and licks it off.

“Mercie!” Ingrid exclaims, face heating up. When she looks around, thankfully no one is within earshot. There’s a dog, but it’s quite a ways away at the other side of the park. Ingrid sighs in relief.

Mercedes only smiles, of course. “Couldn’t let it go to waste,” is all she says as explanation, and takes another bite of the sandwich.




Mercedes thought it had been a fluke, once, seeing Ingrid watching with rapt attention as she puts on a bra.

It wasn’t so obvious before they moved in together, but now that it is, Mercedes wants to slap herself for not noticing.

“We’re going to be late,” Mercedes whines, but her hand is still at the base of Ingrid’s skull, firm in its place, definitely not retracting anytime soon.

She’s half-dressed — she has a skirt on, and she was fussing over which top to wear when she watched, through the mirror, Ingrid approaching her.

“Babe,” she’d said, “which one do you think goes better with my skirt?” Mercedes held up two different blouses.

It’s a dangerous question, and she knows it, but she is legitimately stumped between her choices. (Yes, maybe —  _ maybe! _ — she’d wanted Ingrid to lavish her with attention before she has to socialise with everyone at her birthday party later. Sue her.)

Ingrid had approached her, then, with hungry eyes. Mercedes had made calculations, of course; she’s not stupid: they have an hour before they need to leave, and with the way Ingrid drives (even after accounting for her driving 5 mph under the speed limit) they would have time for about two rounds of sex.

She hadn’t, however, taken into account Ingrid’s apparent fascination with her breasts.

And so: Ingrid is lightly tracking her hands over Mercedes’ ribcage, a little ghost of a touch that sends goosebumps in their wake.

When Ingrid’s hands come up to unclasp her bra, Mercedes arches her back to lean further into her girlfriend’s warmth. Ingrid makes her way upwards, pressing open-mouthed kisses over her clavicle, the side of her neck, and finally she kisses Mercedes on the lips and bites down softly. Mercedes can only moan weakly, a sound much like music to her girlfriend’s ears.

“Please,” she begs. “We’re going to be late.”

Ingrid leans back, and Mercedes wants to chase after her lips for another kiss, but she doesn’t. Not when Ingrid slides her hands up Mercedes’ arms and tugs at her bra straps, letting the offending garment unceremoniously fall away.

“Tell me to stop,” Ingrid starts, tracing a finger over a sensitive nipple, the other one rolled between a thumb and an index finger, and oh, Mercedes wants  _ more. _ “Tell me to stop, and I will.”

Mercedes watches as Ingrid walks backwards to the bad and sits down, legs spread apart. She hasn’t dressed at all for the party except for her underwear. Perhaps she’d had the same idea. Mercedes spares a cursory glance downwards, and Ingrid is absolutely soaking wet through her panties. Mercedes so desperately wants to lap it all up, run her tongue over her girlfriend’s slick folds. She steps forward, stopping in between Ingrid’s legs. At this height, Mercedes’ breasts are at eye level with Ingrid.

Ingrid is watching her with a hungry sort of gaze, waiting for her answer.

“No,” Mercedes says finally. “Don’t stop.”

Ingrid very happily welcomes a breast into her mouth, runs her tongue over Mercedes’ areola before teasing her nipple proper. She keeps at her ministrations, humming happily along to Mercedes’ moaning. She can do nothing but make small whimpering noises, all the while saying Ingrid’s name like a prayer, wanting  _ more, more, more, oh, don’t stop, my love. _

The pleasure is too much and not enough — her knees buckle, and Ingrid hooks an arm around Mercedes’ waist to hold her in place. Mercedes can feel the tautness of her girlfriend’s muscles, and she is throbbing and wet in the most delicious places.

Mercedes tugs at Ingrid’s hair, urging. More,  _ more.  _ She doesn’t know if she says it out loud — right now, thinking is secondary — but Ingrid obliges all the same and grazes at her nipple between her teeth while her other arm still holds her securely.

  
  
  


They’re almost an hour late. Mercedes’ predictions and calculations were otherwise correct, of course — Ingrid  _ did _ give her two orgasms, after all, and… well. She’ll take the win. She’ll take note of this particular variable next time.

Dorothea and Petra smile knowingly at them. Mercedes doesn’t know what to make of this, and doesn’t care to, not right now, not when Ingrid is smiling up at her, still holding onto her hand, telling her to go socialise with their friends. “I’ll be here,” she says, her grin wider, if that’s at all possible. “Right behind you,” she clarifies, “I need to rest my legs a bit. It’s still jelly.”

(That night, a very thoroughly exhausted Mercedes leaves an unwashed mug in the sink. She wakes Ingrid up with some nonsense about putting soap in her pencil case at three in the morning. At eleven, she wakes up to coffee and Ingrid’s chicken paninis.)

**Author's Note:**

> not my best work but i had fun writing it
> 
> also, disclaimer: i haven't really written nsfw stuff so I'm gonna need more practice before i get good haha
> 
> and i was having second thoughts about posting this but i saw a tweet from [@sapphic_plant](https://twitter.com/sapphic_plant/status/1266406225954119680) earlier and. yeah .
> 
> oh and happy birthday to [@yoctogram_](https://twitter.com/yoctogram_) buddy i can't believe ur birthday falls on mercedes weekend!!!
> 
> come to [twitter](https://twitter.com/clonebutt) i have thoughts about these lesbians that i like to talk about


End file.
